A/N: I can't believe we're in the second to last chapter! Thanks all for reading and reviewing and for just generally making me smile. Hurting the boys is more fun when you have an audience :) All notes and disclaimers in chapter one.

Chapter Nine

Jaclyn wanted to be scared.

She wanted to curl up in a ball and cry until her dad came and got her and took her away from here and never made her come back. She wanted this to be a dream, a bad dream; she didn't want it to be real.

But it was real. She knew it was. She had tried to wake herself—her arm still had red marks from where she'd pinched herself.

Besides, even if this was a dream, she still had to help Sam.

The man had been reciting the words, some language she didn't know, and she'd made sure they'd all done their job. Jeremy and Lara were already down the hallway and Daniel was still with Liam in the bathroom. All they had to do was finish the chant, then it'd be over. Sam would finish it, and then they could go home, just like he said.

But Jaclyn wasn't sure this was part of the plan.

Sam was shivering. Standing in the middle of the room, shivering. His voice shook, like he was scared, and he looked scared. He looked tired and hurt.

Then he fell to his knees.

Jaclyn yelped. "Sam!"

His words seemed slower now, but she couldn't tell, not really, because she didn't know this language. It was like listening to her grandmother speak in lightning-fast Spanish—all gibberish with moments of familiar sounding words

"Sam!"

His eyes were wide now, she could see that even from where she stood. His jaw was opening slower now and his voice had stopped.

"Sam!"

Then he fell to the ground, face first, hard into the floor. And he didn't just lie there—not like before. This time he was shaking. Hard. Harder than she'd ever seen anyone shake.

It looked painful—and wrong. His head smacked against the floor, his long limbs flailing.

She was pretty sure he was dying. She'd never seen someone die before. Then again, she'd never been trapped in a museum that brought things to life, either.

She realized she was staring, that she wasn't doing anything, and her common sense returned to her. Sam needed to read the ritual. That's what he had said. And he hadn't finished and she knew with a growing feeling of despair that he wasn't going to finish it—not like he was.

"Jaclyn, what are you doing?" Jeremy's voice came at her from behind. "We have to leave, just like Sam told us to!"

He was right. And they were supposed to follow directions, they were supposed to listen, especially now…

But something was wrong. She had to help Sam. He'd saved their lives, and now it was her turn to save his.

"Jaclyn!"

She looked at Jeremy. He was standing around the corner, his head poking around.

"Come on!" he said. "Daniel will be waiting for us in the bathroom!"

"You go back," she called. "I need to help Sam."

Without anymore thought, she sprinted forward, her white tennis shoes skidding on the floor as she approached Sam's body. Up close, he looked even worse, and she wanted to be scared, but there wasn't time.

Careful to avoid his shaking limbs, she pulled at the paper clutched in his hand. His grip was firm, too firm, and his face looked funny.

It wasn't coming loose.

She felt herself panicking. Sam had said it would be okay, Sam had said they could do this. But they needed Sam to finish it, and Sam was on the floor.

Tears welled up in her eyes and she felt her resolve waning. She couldn't do this. She couldn't even get the paper from his hands. It would be screwed up. They wouldn't get rid of it—it was wrong—

Suddenly, amid the jerking, Sam's hand relinquished the paper. Surprised, she didn't have time to stop herself from falling backwards.

She hit the floor with a thud that made her body hurt.

But she had the paper. It was in her hands. Now she just had to read it.

She couldn't feel her fingers as they uncrinkled the paper. Her eyes struggled to focus on the writing, blinking away tears. Unconsciously, she stepped away from Sam, away from his thrashing, trying not to listen to the growing noise.

Berating herself, she remembered to breathe, and her vision cleared enough to see the letters. But they didn't make sense. None of them. They looked more foreign than the Spanish her grandmother was always trying to tell her she needed to learn to read.

Her heart leapt into her throat. She couldn't do this. She didn't know how to do this. Sam was hurt—dying maybe—and whatever was in the museum was getting stronger, more powerful. She could feel the energy growing in the room, surging through her, causing her skin to tingle.

Sam was counting on her. Liam was counting on her. Jeremy, Lara, and Daniel were counting on her now.

Jaclyn was a good reader, always had been, and phonics had been a breeze to her. Just sound it out, she reminded herself, and began reading, approximating where Sam had left off.

"Et Spiritus Sanctus habitet in eo."

Her voice tripped, stumbling over it, and suddenly the energy bolted, crackling and she jumped back involuntarily. Sam's body was shaking so hard that it barely hit the ground, and he was stiff and rigid with it.

"Per eumdem Christum Dominum nostrum--"

Sam went still suddenly and she felt something encircle her, nearly stealing her breath away. She had to read faster.

"Qui venturus est judicare vivos--"

She raced, barely breathing as her body went cold.

"--Et mortuous--"

She had to finish—now—or she never would.

The coldness had nearly enveloped her and her vision began to feel fuzzy.

"--Et saeculum per ignem!"

She pushed the last line out through numbing lips and felt herself shaking as she did so. She could no longer read, no longer see, couldn't really think, she just prayed that she'd been fast enough, that it'd worked, that this would all be over soon.

Things whited out, just for a second, before she found herself panting on the ground.

Alive. Breathing.

The cold was abating, quickly, and her senses were returning to her in full force.

Her vision cleared and she blinked away tears. She didn't know what had happened, what that really was, and she wished her mom was her, her dad, her sister--anyone.

Then she remembered Sam.

Sam was still sprawled out on the floor, unmoving.

He looked dead.

He looked worse than Ethan had, even worse than Liam. He looked nearly as pale as her grandfather had when she'd gone to his funeral.

But Sam couldn't be dead. Sam had promised her.

Getting to her knees, she crawled to him. "Sam?" she asked, almost afraid to know the answer. "Sam are you okay?"

The pool of blood next to him frightened her and she couldn't keep herself from crying. "Sam, you have to wake up!" she called. "It's gone now! We can go!"

He didn't stir.

Reaching down, she put her hand on his chest, relieved to feel it rising beneath her. He was breathing, like he'd been in the bathroom when his brother had asked.

He was alive. All she had to do was get him outside and everything would be okay, just like he promised. His brother was out there, and he would help them, just like Sam had.

With a shaky sigh, she stood, latching onto one of Sam's legs and began to pull.

-o-

Dean alternated between attacking a fingernail with his teeth and drumming his fingers against the laptop's closed surface. It should be over by now. Sam should have finished the ritual.

But Sam was hurt--it would take awhile, Dean reasoned. He needed to be patient. Sam would succeed. Sam had to succeed.

He stood and took to pacing.

Looking to the building, then around, he caught Grace's eye. She smiled wanly at him. Unnerved, Dean sat again.

The kids had taken to sitting, sprawled throughout the pavilion, talking and playing games quietly with one another. Grace too the opportunity to wander toward Dean.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "You okay? You look nervous."

Dean's eyes darted to her before returning to the building. "Yeah, I—"

His words were cut off by a muffled roar and something shook the entire area. Grace wavered on her feet, struggling to maintain her balance, and Dean threw a hand on the laptop to keep it from clattering to the ground.

The movement was over as fast as it began, leaving the crowd shell-shocked in its wake.

Belatedly, someone started crying and yelling picked up as the museum staff erupted into a frenzy.

It was over—it had to be over. Because security was buzzing again and he felt Grace tense next to him.

"What was that?" Grace asked, still shaky on her feet.

Dean perked up, stepping closer. He barely noticed Grace's presence next to him.

"Was that from inside the museum?" she asked, a little mortified at the possibility.

Dean didn't answer. He just kept his eyes trained on the door. Waiting.

"They're going in," Grace breathed.

She was right. The security team had the door open, two of them loitering just inside the lobby.

This was ridiculous. If the place was somehow not on lockdown anymore, he wasn't going to wait for some security crew to find his injured brother. He wasn't going to make his injured brother limp out alone—assuming Sam could even move at this point.

No. It was time to be the big brother. He was going to go in himself.

He'd gotten past tighter security before and there wasn't much higher motivation than finding his injured brother.

He just needed another distraction.

Usually he'd use Sam for that, but Sam wasn't here, which was his problem in the first place. When in doubt, however, improvise.

He eyed Grace with renewed interest. While she was no longer exactly date material, she could prove to be a useful distraction.

With a breath, he placed a hand on her arm. "I'm going in," he announced.

She looked at him, surprised. "But security--"

"They won't know what to look for," Dean cut her off. "I want to find Sam and the kids quickly--if anyone's hurt, they're going to need help right away."

"But--"

"Grace, please," he said. He didn't have the time for logic or intricate persuasion. "Let me find the kids and my brother."

She closed her mouth, pressing her lips into a narrow line. "What do you want me to do?"

-o-

Grace should have been an actress.

That as all Dean could think as he watched her throwing a hysterical fit in front of the guards. Her tears looked real and her voice was strained and high pitched.

"What do you mean, you don't know what's wrong?" she was yelling.

The guards were trying to comfort her and she flailed, eliciting the attention of Dr. Huber as well.

"I want to know, right now!" she yelled.

They were all so preoccupied with her, that no one saw Dean slip in the same side door Sam had entered. The doors all opened easily now, without any jimmying whatsoever. The spirit was definitely gone.

Once inside, the museum was silent, eerily so. There were distant echoes from the staff in the main lobby, probably looking over the computer and security systems before they ventured farther in. With a glance around to make sure his coast was clear, he began in.

He didn't need a map—not this time. It didn't matter that he had no idea where anything was, that the labyrinth of rooms and corridors had given him a headache only hours before. None of that mattered when he was after Sam.

It was his Sammy-sense—always would be—and it was growing cold in the pit of his stomach.

His heart was thumping so loud, his ears were ringing--he barely heard the voices.

Distant. Small. Panicked. Young.

The kids.

Where there were kids, there would be Sam.

Dean's course changed without conscious thought, moving skillfully toward the sounds.

As he neared, he could hear the voices more clearly. The fear in them was raw, true. "Help! Help us, please!"

He saw the kids first, three of them, pulling and straining, the two girls crying, snot all over the place.

"Please," the dark-haired one begged, and Dean recognized the voice. "He's heavy."

That's when his mind registered what they were pulling. Sprawled on the floor, unmoving and pale and bloody, was Sam. The two girls had a hold of his left leg while the boy had his right.

Dean's heart fluttered and his stomach clenched.

Numbly, he moved to the kids, nudging them out of the way as he fell to his knees next to his brother, hands hovering over his brother's bleeding body.

"He's going to be okay, right?" the boy asked.

"Can you help him?" the blonde asked.

Dean didn't know. Dean didn't know anything. He just knew Sam was bleeding, Sam was unconscious. How had Sam finished the job? "What happened? I thought he was awake."

"It got him," the dark-haired one—Jaclyn, he remembered—said. "He was reading and then...he just stopped and started shaking."

Dean's eyes flashed up to hers. "It attacked him? Did he get to finish?"

"I finished it," she said, her voice now shaking in earnest as tears piled up in her eyes. "I did it just like he did."

"You finished it?" Dean repeated, incredulous.

"I had to," she said. "It was hurting him. I couldn't let it hurt him."

"He saved us," the blonde added.

"Is he okay?" the boy asked, and Dean's disbelief melted into fear once again.

Gently, he felt Sam's neck for a pulse, frowning a little at its inconsistency. He fingered the gash on his brother's head—noted with some satisfaction that it was superficial. He didn't have to lift Sam's shirt to know that the wound to the side was not.

And none of it mattered with the unknown variable of the spirit's attack. He had no idea how the other children were faring. It was possible that now that the spirit was gone, that the kids would have their health returned to them, like with the shtriga. But if they didn't...

Dean didn't want to consider that. He didn't want to think about the blood that sheeted the side of his brother's face, the way his brother's head rolled limply toward him, the way Sam's limbs lay loosely where they'd been flopped. He didn't want to think about Sam never waking up, about Sam falling victim to this, about Sam dying for these kids while Dean stood outside and did nothing.

He was shaking--no, he was being shook.

He blinked back to reality.

"You have to help him!" Jaclyn yelled, her small hands on him. "You have to."

She was right. She was only eight years old and she knew more about his job at the moment than he did.

Without hesitating a moment more, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. It didn't matter if they found out he'd sneaked in. It didn't matter if the FBI found him. The only thing that mattered was getting Sam help, and he'd do that anyway he could.

-o-

He didn't leave his brother's side, not even in the ambulance, though the paramedics shot him nasty looks. Dr. Huber had been more than a little surprised to see him coming out of the museum at his brother's side, but when Grace enthusiastically greeted the children, he seemed to forget, too concerned about Sam's and Liam's condition and issues of liability and bad publicity to throw too much of a snit.

Dean had asked for two pairs of medics and had Jeremy show one set to Liam and Daniel. He knew he should check on the younger boy himself, that's what Sam would have wanted, but he couldn't bring himself to leave his brother's side. Jaclyn didn't budge either; the girl squatted on the other side of Sam, steady and terrified, and it took everything Grace had to keep her from climbing into the ambulance, leeched onto Dean's leg.

Sam was silent in the ambulance, and the medic was not overly informative. Dean was left to his worries and his doubts as he prayed to see some kind of response from Sam.

The waiting room was lonely, but they always were, and Dean found himself staring blankly at muted green walls, trying not to remember. By the time he'd gotten to the hospital, the day had waned, and now the early evening found Dean with nothing to do but think and wait. It seemed hard to believe that they'd only just arrived in Springfield that morning.

The entire case haunted him, the sound of Sam's pained voice of the phone, the way Sam had looked so lifeless when he'd finally found him.

But what he found himself thinking about more than anything else, were the kids.

The kids were what started this, what had made Sam go back in at all. Their goal had been to save them, but they saved people all the time.

Sam hadn't just saved these kids. He'd earned their trust, their faith. Sam had earned their love.

Not that it really surprised Dean. Sam had that effect on people, but this was different somehow. It was a part of his brother he'd never truly seen, never truly understood.

He'd seen the looks on their faces. He'd heard it in the tones of their voices. Sam had bonded with these kids.

Dean wasn't sure why, but there was something bittersweet in that.

He sighed, leaning back in the chair, trying to keep his legs from going numb.

It hurt to see Sam make connections with the outside world because they weren't relationships Sam could have. There was no room for that in their lives. The hunt simply didn't allow for it. It was a lesson they'd learned the hard way throughout their entire lives. Every time they tried to defy it, it came crashing down on them. And they had a list of names and broken dreams to prove it—both of them.

Dean always had a soft spot for kids, especially kids who suffered because of the supernatural, because he knew what that was like. Sam had always been good with kids, kind and gentle and protective, but he'd never realized just how good Sam could be with them because Sam had never had the chance.

Sam hadn't had the chance for a lot of things in his life, Dean thought ruefully.

His musings were interrupted by a familiar face, peering at him tentatively.

It took his brain a minute to process it, but soon he recognized the face. "Dean?"

"Grace," he said, clearing his throat. "What are you doing here?"

She smiled, taking his acknowledgement of her presence as an invitation to sit. "Just wanted to check on the kids."

Dean nodded distantly.

"Have you heard anything about Sam?" Grace asked, her eyes roaming the room.

"Nothing," Dean said, trying to swallow the tremor in his voice. He glanced around, realizing just how alone he and Grace seemed. "How are the kids?"

"I had to have a meeting with the parents," Grace said. "They needed to know about it before they heard about it all on the evening news."

"How'd they take it?"

Grace smiled a little. "Bad timing. So far no one's pointing fingers--at me, anyway. I talked to my principal and he's just relieved that no one was more seriously hurt."

"How's Ethan? And Liam?" In his worry about Sam, it was easy to forget that his brother wasn't the only victim.

Looking down, Grace shifted uncomfortably. "They've had some trouble keeping them stabilized," she said. "Something about an erratic heartbeat."

It took all of Dean's resolve not to let this news shatter his composure. If Ethan and Liam weren't cured by now, if they were still showing signs of having been attacked, that meant there was no miraculous cure when the spirit was gone. It meant that Sam would have one more obstacle to overcome.

"It wasn't a contagion, was it?" Grace asked, so suddenly that Dean jumped in surprise.

"What?"

"What happened in the museum," she said. "It wasn't some freak contamination."

"Why do you say that?"

"The kids," she said. "Jaclyn, Lara, and Jeremy. They're lying about what happened. I can tell. And the museum is asking about these weird lines of salt around the Jewels of the East exhibit."

Dean hesitated, contemplating what to say to her with dread. She was bright and more receptive than Dean felt like dealing with. Mostly, she knew her kids, just like Dean knew Sam, and she wasn't about to sit idly by while something went on under her nose. "Would you believe me if I told you the truth?" Dean asked finally, grinning weakly.

She didn't smile back. "Try me."

Dean looked down for a moment, collecting himself. When he looked up, he felt tired. "It was a spirit," Dean said. "Someone long ago had been cursed and forced to stay inside one of the jewels. She spent the next couple of centuries trying to find her way back out. When the jewel was finally excavated and put on display, she found her means. Children, all over the place. If she could suck their life force, she might gain enough to return to human form. Sam and I were here trying to figure that out and stop her from doing it again."

The story was long and Dean watched as the meaning settled over her features. "You're saying a ghost attacked Liam and Ethan?"

"And other kids before them," Dean said.

"And how do you know that? I mean, how would anyone know that?"

He had told her this much. There was nothing left to hold back. "It happens more often than you think. Hauntings, paranormal activity." He shrugged, too weary to go into more detail. "It's real more often than not."

It was never easy news for someone to take, and Grace just stared at him, mouth slightly open like she couldn't decide whether to be insulted or shocked. "You're kidding me."

The shake of Dean's head was short and to the point. "Sam needed help finishing the ritual. He had to ask the kids to help consecrate the room so the spirit couldn't escape--that's why there was salt. Sam's injuries were because the spirit brought museum exhibits to life. The kids were holed up in a bathroom to try to hide from it all."

She sank back into her chair, her face pale. "I didn't want to believe them," she said.

"They told you?" Dean asked, suddenly alarmed. The last thing they needed was extra publicity.

"Lara did—sort of. She said she wasn't supposed to, that it was a secret, but that she didn't know what to do. She was terrified by it. She didn't want to go home. She kept wanting to see Sam because Sam could make it right just like he had in the museum. None of it made any sense though, unless...I mean...it's crazy."

"We kind of try to keep it discreet," Dean admitted. "It does sound pretty crazy."

At that, Grace laughed, short and a little hysterical. When she was done, she was slumped back in the chair, shaking her head. "Just a little," she said. "So when will you hear about Sam?"

Dean's face darkened. "They won't tell me anything."

"Do you want some company?"

Dean looked up, surprised. "You want to wait?"

"I want to stick around and see if Ethan and Liam are doing okay. Their parents are up in the PICU right now." She sighed a little. "And I owe it to Sam, I think."

Dean eased himself back in the chair, trying to find a comfortable position. "Me too," he said quietly, almost inaudibly. "Me too."